


The Wedding

by dreadelion



Series: Young Wolves [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Come Eating, Dancing, M/M, Oral Sex, Reunions, Rough Sex, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 01:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14863803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadelion/pseuds/dreadelion
Summary: Late summer brings Geralt to a village in the middle of a wedding, where he meets an unexpected, familiar face.





	The Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> Would you look at that, I finally wrote the porn sequel Young Wolves desperately needed :D
> 
> This is very very self-indulgent, but also partially dedicated to [Pavo](http://pavoproductions.tumblr.com), who put the thought of Eskel dancing into my mind and it stuck with me in a major way. Also a massive thanks to [Sparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall) for the beta, once again!
> 
> Also worth of note: my Geralt is transgender, and is depicted having penetrative vaginal sex in this fic. If that bothers you, please be wary. Geralt's parts are referred to with the word cock for the most part.

A witcher’s life on the Path is monotonous, for the most part. Geralt rides his horse into the fifth village that day, and continues to be bored out of his skull. He is slowly making his winding way towards Kaedwen, picking up whatever contracts he can find as he goes. It seems like a whole host of wolf witchers have also had the same thought of retiring to their home keep early this year, since none of the villages Geralt has ridden through the past week have had any monster problems - not ones they’d offer coin to solve, anyway. 

Geralt adjusts his position in the saddle as he looks around. He still isn’t used to this new horse — Roach, is her name. Geralt thinks it’s a stupid name for a horse, but it is what the woman he bought her from said her name is, so he went with it. Despite her unfortunate name, the mare is well-behaved and steady, so Geralt has taken a liking to her. 

He pats her on the neck absent-mindedly, and sweeps his eyes over his surroundings again. Dusk is settling in, and not only are the streets curiously empty, but so are the fields around them, and no buildings seem to have life inside them. No signs of distress or disease though, so Geralt dismounts in front of a large-ish building — which he assumes to be the local inn. It has no smoke rising from the chimney either, so Geralt keeps his senses alert as he pushes the door open and enters.

It’s dark inside, and quiet. None of the hustle and bustle of a tavern and an inn, and even the hearth in the corner is unlit. Nothing signals danger though, so Geralt feels mainly confused. The sound of shuffling and hurried steps from the back room catches his attention, and Geralt stands alert as a red-haired woman bursts into the main room and nearly stumbles into him.

“Oh, damn! You surprised me!” The woman exclaims as she stumbles back. She lifts her eyes, and startles again. “Oh, hello, Master Witcher! What can I do for you?”

“Uh, are you the innkeep? Do you have rooms?” Geralt asks. He takes a moment to look at the woman. Her garments are those of a commoner, but fine ones, likely her best outfit — embroidered skirts and cuffs, and shiny silver brooches on her breast. Her hair is pinned to her head, but strands of it have escaped, giving her a hurried, disheveled look. She is on her way somewhere, and likely late.

“Oh, right, right! Sorry, everything is a bit of a mess right now,” the innkeep says, turning to rummage in the drawers underneath the counter. “Listen, I can give you the room, but we don’t have food or drink tonight. I’m not even supposed to be here right now. The lord’s daughter is getting married, and the whole village has gone, and so has all our bread and ale and meat! But, if you change into something other than stained armor—” she casts a glance at Geralt’s worn leathers, spattered with blood stains and dust from the road, “—I’m sure the lord won’t mind another witcher as his guest.”

Geralt hands her a few coins from his purse, taking the key from her hand in exchange. He doesn’t exactly feel like socializing with any lords or even their subjects, but a party meant free food and drink, and possibly even some company for the night. And he can’t say he isn’t curious about what she means by “another witcher”. Another wolf, maybe? “Right. Sure. Where can I—”

“Listen, I really need to get going, I’m already late,” she cuts him off. “You can’t miss the tents, up on the estate on the hill. Come if you will, but make yourself presentable. There’s a barrel with fresh water behind the house!”

She sweeps past Geralt, calling her last words from the door, and leaves him standing in the hall with the key in his hand. He shrugs, going to get his saddlebags from Roach, and to find a stable to put her in.

The room is small, but serviceable. He dresses in his spare undershirt and the same trousers, and washes his face. The innkeep didn’t provide him with a mirror so he can’t shave — a few days’ worth of stubble will have to do. He doesn’t feel comfortable leaving his swords behind, but also doesn’t want to offend the lord, so he only slips a dagger into his boot as he’s leaving.

The innkeep spoke true: it’s impossible to miss the tents. Three canvas tents of different sizes are set up and decorated with garlands, ribbons and flowers, and lanterns hang from trees to light the dim summer evening. The estate building itself is not very large or lavish, and Geralt tries to rack his brain for the names of any smaller lords in Kaedwen, but can’t recall anything. Still, whoever he is, he doesn’t seem to be sparing any expense for his daughter’s wedding.

Geralt weaves his way past small clusters of people enjoying the cooling air, and couples sneaking kisses and touches in secluded corners and behind bushes. The loud, upbeat music playing inside the largest tent echoes just as loud outside, and Geralt feels the ground thrum with the beat of a hundred dancing feet. The sounds and sights and smells of merrymaking hit him in the face the second he steps in.

A band of troubadours play on a raised stage, the fiddler clearly leading the tune, beating her foot to the music and smiling wildly. The crowd has parted in two, half of the people dancing in the cleared area in the center, and the other half hanging back around long tables piled high with food and drink and sweets. Geralt slips past the crowd, sidestepping a merry drunk stumbling his way outside. The witcher picks up a stein from a table and leans back to take in the crowd for a moment. 

The dance is wild and fast-paced, the dancers cheery and dripping sweat. Skirts and plaits swing when men spin their partners around, then take three steps one way, two another, step in a circle, then switch partners and begin the pattern anew.

Geralt has never been one to dance, but he understands the mechanics of it. Just memorizing steps, and letting your body flow with the movement. Not too different from swordplay, at the root of it.

The dancers keep moving, and as the crowd shifts and turns in front of him, Geralt’s eyes catch on a tall, solidly-built man swinging around a girl in auburn plaits, on the far side of the tent. He‘d recognize that frame anywhere.

Geralt knows he stands out in any crowd like a sore thumb, with his shocking white hair, but Eskel blends in with the peasantry near flawlessly. If not for the cat eyes and the scars peeking out from under his collar and down his bared arms, Eskel could pass for a well-built villager. He has a loose linen shirt on, open halfway down his chest, with an embroidered vest on top of it, and he looks… _happy_. He smiles wide at every girl he gets paired with, his body flowing with the music effortlessly. Geralt can’t see his feet, but he knows his steps are sure and precise, like they always have been, both in the training ring and on the Path. He looks at home, enjoying the simple pleasures of a commoner’s life, and Geralt tries his best to blend in with the crowd, just so he can watch for a little longer. Eskel looks so happy, so _normal_ , that Geralt’s heart aches both with fondness, and with some odd sense of injustice, knowing that this easy, carefree life is what Eskel was ripped away from when he was made a witcher.

As the song draws to a close, with a loud bang of the drum and a thump of the fiddler’s foot, all the dancers throw an arm in the air as the rest of the crowd cheers and applauds. Eskel is breathing hard, dripping sweat, and grinning at his partner. He gives her an exaggerated bow and a cheeky wink, and begins to make his way toward the table Geralt stands near, greeting people as he passes. When he lifts his head and meets Geralt’s eyes, the smile widens as his eyes light up with recognition, and Geralt can feel an answering smile was bloom on his own face.

“Wolf!”

Eskel takes the last remaining steps as two huge leaps, and catches Geralt in a crushing hug, which he returns happily. Eskel smells of sweat and honeyed cakes, and Geralt breathes the grounding scent of him in deep. When Eskel lets go, Geralt grabs the back of his neck and knocks their foreheads together — he desperately wants to do more, to kiss and to touch, but he is painfully aware of the crowd around them, giving curious glances at the two witchers making a scene. He feels a similar need in the way Eskel is grasping at his arms, tight enough to leave little fingerprint-shaped bruises through the coarse linen of his shirt.

Eskel pulls back with a laugh and holds Geralt at an arm’s length, just _looking_ at him, taking in the change another year apart has brought, eyes full of affection. “Damn, it’s good to see you, Wolf. A sight for sore eyes, you are.”

“Really? Some of the girls you were charming over there didn’t leave _my_ eyes sore, at least,” Geralt grins at him. It’s so easy, to fall back into the familiar pattern, but the smile on his face takes all the bite out of his words.

“You know what I mean, smart ass. I’ve missed you.”

Geralt has missed him as well. The last time they were on the Path together was five years ago, and while the time apart has been good for both of them, as witchers and as men, he is still overjoyed every time he sees Eskel again. With every year apart it has gotten easier to trust Eskel, to know that he can handle himself on the Path, and that he’ll always return to Geralt, eventually.

For a few years Eskel spent the summers at Kaer Morhen as well, helping to train new witchers, and training to become an instructor himself. Those years, Geralt was selfishly happy, knowing that Eskel was safe and comfortable, even though they were apart. He has always been good with the pups, even when they were barely anything more than apprentices themselves, and for once, Geralt feels that the Masters were in the right when they chose to train Eskel for an instructor position. Last spring, when Geralt left Kaer Morhen, Eskel had been unsure of his plans, still deciding whether he would stay for more training or head out to gather more experience as a witcher on the Path.

“Listen, Geralt, damn— I’ll grab a drink, we gotta talk, I have to introduce you to—”

“What’s this, Master Eskel? I was told we have another wolf in our midst!” 

A short woman appears at Eskel’s shoulder, not shying away at all from this hulking, scarred witcher. She is maybe twenty years of age, with flowers woven into her sleek black hair, a strong nose and rich, finely embroidered garments and jewelry. It is obvious at a glance that she is the bride. Eskel laughs as he turns to face her.

“You heard right. This is Geralt, my brother and oldest friend. I was just as surprised to see him as you are. Geralt, this is Anetta, the lord’s daughter and the lucky girl tonight.”

She smiles good-naturedly at Eskel. “Well, a friend of Eskel’s is a friend of mine, and surely welcome at my wedding,” she says with a small bow of the head in Geralt’s direction. He nods back, then looks to Eskel for an explanation. Not that he doubts Eskel’s capability to charm even a newlywed bride, but it is uncommon for a witcher to receive such grace and hospitality.

“A local soothsayer had been offended by an injustice the lord had done to him, and on his deathbed cursed the lord and his house,” Eskel explains. “I lifted the curse.”

“ _And_ saved my life in the process,” Anetta says, with one raised eyebrow, as though this is something Eskel has failed to mention on numerous occasions. “Master Eskel has been staying with us ever since, and I’m sure father would happily extend the invitation to you as well, Master Geralt.”

Geralt gives Eskel another glance, and nods again. “Thank you.”

Anetta looks from one witcher to another, sensing the odd discomfort in the air, and clears her throat awkwardly. “Right! Well, I’d better be getting back to my party. I’ll let you two catch up.”

As soon as she is out of earshot, Eskel snorts. “Still uncomfortable around nobility, I see.” Geralt punches him on the arm, but Eskel just laughs harder. “Come on, let’s get those drinks and catch up.”

Geralt piles a plate high with everything the tables have to offer, and Eskel fills their tankards and leads them to a bench outside. The evening continues to grow colder as they talk, wedding guests coming and going, taking turns dancing and cooling off outside. They are given space, some guests nodding at Eskel, but none of them approaching. The distance seems to be more respectful, rather than the fear or distrust witchers usually encounter. Eskel has clearly won their favour, telling Geralt he has spent little over a month at the village, first breaking the curse and then enjoying the lord’s hospitality. He is itching to get back on the Path again. Another witcher showing up in the same village is definitely a sign that it is time to get going.

Geralt in turn tells of his travels on the Path that year, and of the more exciting hunts of the year. He lifted a curse off a werewolf near Tretogor, and soon after that took down a clever old forktail plaguing a trade route, the two contracts giving him enough coin to finally get himself a horse — a milestone for every young witcher, and one that made life on the Path significantly more pleasant. Eskel doesn’t let him feel too proud about it for long though, smugly letting him know that he was also given a horse by the lord as a thanks for the rescue of his daughter.

To a passerby, they must look like two good friends, catching up over a drink after a long time apart, but Geralt feels a hunger building, gnawing at him from the inside. He sees the same need in Eskel, and every time he touches Geralt, grabbing his shoulder or clapping his back, his hands linger, holding on tighter than they perhaps should.

When Eskel slams him against the wall of the stable, on the other side of the estate from the party, Geralt hisses and bites Eskel’s lip in retaliation. He sweeps his hands down Eskel’s back and sides, affirming, remembering, tracing familiar paths over his body, and kissing him with teeth. The kiss tastes of ale and iron, Eskel having nicked his lip against a pointed canine tooth; he pushes against Geralt even harder as a result.

Eskel tugs at Geralt’s clothes with urgency, pulling the cloth aside just far enough to slip his hand underneath his shirt, the other hand tugging open the lacing on Geralt’s trousers. When Eskel’s fingers meet his cock, Geralt hisses against his mouth. Eskel dips his fingers in the slick Geralt has been leaking for what feels like fucking _hours_ at this point, and strokes him with clever fingers, too urgent to be teasing, just tugs hard and insistent, until Geralt is hissing and urging him on. 

Geralt spreads his thighs as much as he can as Eskel pins him to the wall, sliding his hand down further and letting his fingers slip inside. He pushes in deep, rough, and the muscles in his shoulders bunch and shift under Geralt’s hands as he nearly lifts Geralt off his feet with one arm. Geralt throws his head back with a loud groan, cracking his head against the wall with a sharp jolt of pain. Eskel chuckles a breathy laugh against his neck and grinds the heel of his hand against Geralt’s cock.

Geralt grabs Eskel’s face and kisses him hard. They’re messy and rough with each other in their urgency, the pain blending with pleasure, as it always has. Eskel slips his other hand out from under Geralt’s shirt and tugs feverishly at the front of his own trousers. He pushes them down just far enough for his cock to spring out, and when he leans against Geralt with his whole body, Geralt feels it brush against his stomach, the tip wet even through the fabric of his shirt.

“Can I?” Eskel pants against his mouth, one hand still inside him, fingers twisting, pushing, and driving Geralt to distraction, the other hand resting low on his stomach. Eskel always asks, no matter how desperate his need was, and if Geralt were any less desperate himself, it would warm his heart. As it is, he just breathes out his assent with a curse and a frantic nod.

Eskel puts both his hands on the backs of Geralt’s thighs, lifts him up, and slides his cock in with a deep groan. Geralt grabs the back of Eskel’s neck and bites at his lip, hissing with a smile as he starts thrusting. He isn’t going to last long, Geralt can feel it in his stuttering movements, so he doubles his own efforts. He kisses and licks and bites at all the sweet spots he has found over the years, putting his hands, rough and strong on the ones his mouth couldn’t reach. He rakes his nails down Eskel’s back and clamps his teeth on the meat of his shoulder, and Eskel comes inside him with a shuddering breath.

Eskel leans heavy against him, pinning Geralt to the wall as he catches his breath. His heartbeat thrums against Geralt’s breastbone and echoes loud in his ears, and Geralt clutches his shoulders a little tighter. Eskel takes a half-step back, just far enough to pull out and to set Geralt back on his feet again. Geralt feels a small trickle of seed leak out of him, and begin to make his way down his thigh. Eskel goes to his knees in one smooth movement, and gives Geralt a heated look and a smirk.

Eskel grabs a hold of Geralt’s hips and gets to work, licking his own come from inside Geralt with skill and enthusiasm. In the years they’ve been fucking, Eskel has become a master with his mouth, and Geralt gets to reap the benefits. Eskel pulls off for a moment, Geralt hears him swallow, and that, despite everything they’ve done with and to each other, is still the filthiest thing he has ever witnessed, the thrill of it settling low in his gut. Eskel leans back in and sucks Geralt’s cock into his mouth, slides two fingers in and _twists_.

Geralt chokes out a high-pitched groan, his hands tangling in Eskel’s hair. He pushes and pulls as Eskel works, not so much directing him, as urging him on to give more, harder, faster, his breathing growing ragged. Geralt pushes himself hard against Eskel’s face, every muscle in his body taut, thighs quivering. He struggles to stay upright as he teeters on the edge of release, and when he finally comes, it’s with a force like a punch to the gut, and a sharp, choked-off whine.

Eskel pulls back and gulps down lungfuls of air as Geralt untangles his hands from Eskel’s hair, small clumps of dark hair coming off between his fingers. Geralt feels the urge to apologize, but remembers Eskel telling him years ago that it felt like proof of a job well done, so he only breathes heavily and brushes a hair out of Eskel’s eyes. Eskel looks him in the eye with a smirk and licks his lips, the whole lower half of his face soaked. He wipes his chin and gets to his feet, but before he can move away or say anything, Geralt pulls him against himself and kisses him — tasting himself on Eskel’s mouth is another indecent thrill.

Geralt doesn’t bother to right either of their garments, so Eskel’s soft cock brushes against his own oversensitive cock, and he twitches with a small noise. He imagines what a sight they must make, and grins into the kiss.

“So, you ready to leave? Coming home with me?” Geralt whispers against Eskel’s lips.

Eskel lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle, his eyes full of warmth as he smiles. “Yeah.”


End file.
